Lupus in Fabula
by journalxxx
Summary: Stan and Ford spend the full moon night locked in the basement.


They step into the basement shortly after dinner. Ford takes a cursory glance at the portal chamber, now mostly devoid of any technological equipment and roughly furnished to offer a somewhat comfortable stay. An old sofa, a desk with a couple of chairs, a chest of drawers, a simple bedframe with a mattress have been moved from the upper floors (with the help of some size-altering crystals, Ford guesses) by Soos and his grandmother while they were redecorating the Shack for its grand opening under the new management. Stan stretches lazily and immediately plops down on the couch with a sigh. Ford drops his large bag in a corner and types the password in the padlock of the elevator. He spells the first two lines of an ancient alien poem in its native tongue, a naturally high-pitched chant that Stan's ragged voice could never hope to reproduce, even in his human form. The device records the sample and beeps in compliance, effectively shutting them in until Ford deems it necessary.

"I did hear you talking with the kids, you know. 'Taming' me? Is that how we're calling this now?"

Ford turns back to see that his brother has already pulled out the laptop and a wide variety of snacks from his own bag, completely taking over the sofa. Stan has been hoarding their shared computer since the kids showed him how to access a seemingly infinite variety of sappy soap operas and bizarre tv shows, and he's undoubtedly planning to fill some of the upcoming hours with that bottomless pit of questionable entertainment. Ford smiles, sitting at the desk with a few books and articles about the resolution of the Cold War he has been planning to catch up with.

"It was just the easiest way to explain it. And it does help to keep your temper in check."

"Uh-uh. If you say so, Poindexter…"

They both chuckle and proceed to do their own thing. It's very calm and quiet for two, maybe three hours as they both sit in companionable silence. Ford, however, notices easily the small tell-tale signs that precede the transformation. Gradually, Stan stops nibbling his junk food, he starts sighing a bit more often, he shifts slightly on the sofa to marginally different positions, his posture getting a little more rigid and hunched with each movement. He doesn't speak nor shows any outright discomfort, but Ford knows him well enough to guess his increasing physical uneasiness. When he finally removes his glasses and puts them on the desk, clearly not needing them anymore to see correctly, Ford knows the change is well underway. He waits five more minutes, just to be sure, before relinquishing his books and joining his brother on the sofa. He slips an arm around his shoulders and squeezes him gently, pulling him close.

"How are you doing?"

He only gets a disgruntled mumble in response. He frowns a little in sympathy, then he lays a soft kiss on Stan's cheek.

"You think I can help?"

It is a genuine question. Stan isn't always up to "be helped" in that particular circumstance, and the last thing Ford wants is to make the whole process more stressful for his brother, but there's reason to try, at least. The complete transformation from human to wolf usually takes four to five hours of growing, nagging distress and pain while the body adjusts its anatomical and biological structures from one form to another. However, by sheer coincidence and very untimely whims, they have discovered that sexual arousal considerably speeds up the procedure, condensing hours of suffering in a scant fifteen-twenty minutes window of much more bearable discomfort. Ford isn't quite sure of the physiological basis of the phenomenon, but several empirical tests have proved that point beyond any doubt. Needless to say, the shorter method has quickly become a shared preference.

"…Yeah."

Stan sighs again and puts the laptop on the desk before leaning into Ford fully, his face nesting in the crook of his neck as he kisses him back with equal softness. Ford can't help but smile, finding the gesture genuinely endearing. No matter how much Stan might try to deny it, the first word Ford would use to describe his brother in those particular moments is indeed "tame". Eager and grateful for Ford's closeness and attentions as always, but, unfortunately, unwell enough for his initiative to be severely hindered. Ford embraces his brother fondly and holds him close, idly stroking his back while he lays a few more slow kisses on his hair.

They leisurely soak in each other's presence for a while. They have no reason to rush it, and taking things at a measured pace is actually the most advisable choice. While Stan might normally get roused very easily, it takes him more time and attention to get going while he's distracted by the small pangs of the mutation. Besides, another quirk of the process is that it's the state of ongoing arousal specifically, rather than the following orgasm, that effectively accelerates it, making a moderate and unhurried stimulation the best approach for everyone. Gradually, Stan's whole body seems to relax and rest against Ford's more naturally, until he raises his head to pull his brother into a proper kiss.

As everything else, it starts out slowly, with a tender brushing of lips and calloused hands cupping each other's cheeks, then it gets more intimate and warm. Their breaths mingle and their tongues meet, sliding slickly with tiny, wet sounds as their bodies slot against each other more snugly. Ford's hand trails downwards to caress Stan's chest, his stomach, his side, then it settles comfortably on his brother's thigh and starts kneading the solid muscle beneath. It doesn't take long for Stan to break the contact with a small groan and lean backwards, trying to pull Ford on top of himself, but he doesn't succeed immediately. Ford slips his hands under the other's sweater and lifts it, smirking at his brother with genuine amusement.

"Teeth and ears, Stan."

The younger twin grumbles in mild annoyance, but he does as he's told. He takes off his dentures and hearing aids and he tosses them on the desk with his trademark finesse, before raising his arms to let Ford remove the garment. Ford shakes his head with a chuckle, honestly convinced that if Stan was left to his own devices, he'd regularly destroy a whole set of clothes and prosthesis with every full moon out of sheer forgetfulness.

As Stan lays down, Ford takes a good look at his torso. It still looks mostly human, but the already remarkable thickness and texture of his body hair has already started to change to a darker, brownish color, with a more uniform distribution. He bends down on him and kisses right above his sternum, letting his hands roam and tangle in the still soft strands. That earns him a deep groan, and a few more as he massages his belly and sides, as he nibbles and pulls at his hard nipples with his teeth. Soon there are rough hands gripping his head, keeping him close, and he hears a half mumbled, half growled "Oooooorrrd" as Stan buckles up slightly against him. Ford pulls up and takes off his brother's remaining clothes, and that's when he truly starts admiring the incredible process he gets to witness.

He's had a good number of occasions to observe the transformation, but every time it feels like he's seeing it for the first time. He's drawn it, he's written it down, he's tried to fix in his memory every tiny detail and step of it, yet it never fails to impress him all over again. Most changes are harmonious and gradual, like the fur growth or the muscle mass development, others are crude and sudden. Ford rakes his hand through the thick strands on his brother's thighs, then he takes ahold of his erection and starts stroking it evenly. He watches in utter fascination the slow reabsorption of the adipose tissue around his stomach, promptly replaced by solid muscles, twitching jerkily under his ministrations. He almost winces in sympathy when Stan's jaw snaps out of its joint with a sharp click, and then immediately slots back in place at a slightly different angle, while its bone and the other facial features elongate and morph into a typical canine shape. Teeth spring from the pink gums without drawing any blood, as naturally as a bud might bloom on a branch. Other articulations and structures subsequently readjust in a similar way, drawing pained whines and low growls from the writhing creature beneath Ford, yet it keeps mostly still, staring at Ford with intent and never ceasing to wiggle against his hand.

Ford looks down when he feels the wolf's member pulsing in his palm, and stops for a moment. That particular step also invarably causes him ever so slightly dizziness. The wolf's penis is noticeably larger than a human's, and the feeling of it engorging and shifting in his own grasp is… peculiar. The foreskin retracts and thickens as well, turning into a proper sheathe, and the exposed skin seems to turn more pink, more vibrant compared to the dark fur around it. Ford gulps, tightening his hold, and rubs the tip firmly, while his other hand slides to the creature's rear, pressing softly around the entrance without pushing in. He's never tried that kind of penetration, he's fairly sure that wouldn't benefit his already questionable taste and fantasies, nor does he wish to risk getting mangled by a furious werewolf. A very careful stimulation doesn't seem to displease Stan though, and soon enough his brother is spasming and whining under him wildly, shooting his seed messily all over his own belly. Ford keeps him in his hand for few more seconds until the creature quiets, then he fetches a napkin and wipes the sticky substance away. When he's done, he can't help but run his hand gently across the now fully grown fur, finding it more bristly and rough to the touch than before, but his examination gets cut short. Like many predators, the wolf doesn't appreciate having his belly exposed, and even less touched, and it swiftly rolls to the side and hops off the sofa with a low growl. He stares at Ford for a moment before stretching and turning away, pacing and sniffing idly around the room. There are still a few anatomical details and features that hint that the transformation isn't complete yet, but Stanley looks calm and well enough to be left to his own devices. Ford sighs, still reeling a bit from the undeniably exciting experience, in a lot of different ways. There will be plenty of occasions to appease that lingering nagging of his, that much is certain. For the time being, he simply moves back to his desk, fetches his journal, takes another good look at the formidable creature before him, and starts to sketch.

* * *

The first time of the night is always a little disconcerting. Granted, Ford always has plenty of time to fully prepare for the event, he even has enough time to actively await it. And again, he's very good at picking up all the little signals of Stan's growing interest in him. After napping and loitering around the chamber for a while, Stan starts peeking, looking, observing him with increasing frequence and attention. He starts brushing against his legs, sniffing his hand, trying to nibble his sleeve. That gives Ford ample warning to move to the mattress, undress, fetch the lube and start stretching himself unhurriedly. Foreplay and preparation are something of an uncommon practice in the animal kingdom, forcing Ford to take care of those particular steps himself, but he doesn't really mind. In fact, that's precisely part of the appeal of the whole thing. But by the time he's slickened and widened himself to an acceptable degree, he keeps having to shove Stan off the bed to prevent him to rush things a bit too much. Eventually he gives in to the increasingly annoyed growls and he lies down on his stomach, spreading his legs and waiting. The mattress sinks as the heavy creature immediately jumps onto it, and he feels the warm tip of a wet canine nose poking at his rear. Stan sniffs him at length despite his earlier impatience, and Ford can't help but shiver in anticipation when he licks tentatively a few times, right against his hole. Then the wolf shuffles around a bit, positions himself, and pushes in. Ford's breath hitches from the sensation, but he manages not to tighten against the sudden intrusion. It's abrupt, but not unpleasant; intense, but not unbearable. At the beginning, the wolf's girth is just a tad larger than the average human, and by far not the worst thing Ford has had to adjust to. At the beginning, though.

Stanley immediately starts moving, with jerky, sudden, unreasonably quick thrusts that positively shock Ford's system. He wills himself to stay relaxed, to remain still despite the instictive need to put some distance between himself and that unsettling stimulation. He will enjoy it, he knows it, he already has, it's just a matter of getting in the proper gear. The stretch is manageable, satisfying even, he just needs to get used to the pace. Everything else is very… pleasantly uncomplicated. There is nothing but the mechanical movements, the blind chase of pleasure, the heady rush of the excitement to these particular encounters. Instinct tells Stan exactly what he needs to do and how, and Ford doesn't need to do anything but follow his lead, literally sit back and enjoy the ride. He exhales deeply, he feels the wolf's paws scraping against the sheets and he does the same, gripping and releasing them with both his fists rhythmically. And it does work relatively well, he begins to pant and moan lowly in appreciation pretty soon, but then Stan becomes properly erected, and it gets a bit complicated again.

The wolf's onslaught of thrusts doesn't slow down one bit, but the stretch becomes evident, more burning, nearly painful, and that's not even the last step. Ford grits his teeth and focusses on breathing evenly, trying to get used to the new sensation. Stan's erection feels massive, slipping inside him with some difficulty despite the abundant lubrication, sliding hotly against Ford's walls. He tries angling his hips slightly differently, with tiny movements as not to bother the wolf, looking for a better position to suit him. He does find it, and it makes him positively gasp.

When Stan's length reaches exactly as deeply as Ford wishes, right where he needs it to be, he even starts pushing back a little against the other's groin, and that's when he feels it. The growing bulge at the base of Stan's erection, rapidly swelling and teasing his entrance. He feels it, and he remembers how it feels, and he wants to feel it again. He spreads his legs more widely, he grips the pillow and pushes back more firmly, goading the creature into taking him completely, and he isn't disappointed. Stan's thrusts become even more reckless and vigorous, he drives into Ford's rear with the single-minded heat of a horny animal, he shoves and shoves until Ford's muscles give in and the knot slips past his entrance. They both groan, and it would be hard to tell who let out the most animalistic noise. The knot slides further in, stimulating Ford with an intensity that shakes him to his very core, then it recedes and slips out, as the human body lacks the appropriate anatomical structures to lock it inside the recipient mate. As expected, the wolf isn't pleased by this unforeseen development, and he reacts most naturally by thrusting with renewed purpose and strenght.

It becomes all a bit of a blur from there. Ford quickly loses count of how many times that maddening mass of tissue forces its way into and out of him, but every time feels like Ford's rear is just about to be split in half. He doesn't like how much he likes the sensation. He comes untouched, just from the sheer power of that stimulation, and he positively trembles when he feels the wolf filling him with his own warmth.

He doesn't move for a good five minutes, and neither does the wolf. He doesn't feel like rushing the animal to move, nor to challenge his instincts further and pull off before the knot has abated. It doesn't even make him particularly uncomfortable at this point. When Stan does pull out, Ford is greeted by another bout of accurate sniffs to his rear, as well as by the questionable pleasure of Stan lapping him clean from his own leaking semen. Foreplay and preparations aside, there is something to be said about politeness in the animal kingdom, he supposes. He closes his eyes and purposefully avoids thinking or doing anything at all for a while. When he looks around the chamber again, he notices his clothes, which he had carefully folded and put on the desk earlier, crumpled and bunched up on the floor, with Stan sprawled on top of them as he's very scrupulously licking his genitals.

* * *

Admittedly, there is little variety in werewolves' mating habits. Stan's mutated form is mostly similar to any normal wolves, with few exceptions. The structure of his spine and limbs is the most notable, allowing him to stand briefly on his rear legs if necessary, though somewhat unsteadily and clumsily. He's decidedly bigger than any regular wolf, reaching the base of Ford's chest in his prone posture, positively towering over him when he's standing. His precarious balance, however, makes it impossible or at least very unadvisable to attempt any kind of vertical arrangement during sex. When it comes to the less adventurous horizontal positions, Ford is allowed very little choice as well. Lying on his back, however freely he might display himself to Stan, invariably results in the wolf ignoring his attentions completely as he testily nudges Ford's sides until he gets him to roll on his stomach, as per habit. Moreover, the wolf doesn't react positively to almost any kind of fondling, growling and swatting away Ford's hands as soon as he gets touched. Oral stimulation is obviously an utter impossibility for the both of them. In short, all Ford can really do during the whole thing is staying put and taking it. Not that the fact displeases him too much, anyway.

Interestingly enough, unlike his habitual attitude as a human, wolf Stan doesn't bite. Ever, for any reason, not even a delicate, teasing or warning nibble. And unlike his habitual attitude when Stan is a human, Ford is actually grateful for the change of treatment, considering the deadly and efficient look of those jaws and fangs.

He does scratch though. Not enought to cause any serious or lasting injury, but enough to draw blood and leave thin, red marks across Ford's skin. For example, at the present moment, the wolf's rough paws are firmly set against Ford's hips, pulling him back against himself in time with his thrusts. The botched conformation of his fingers doesn't really allow him a firm prehensile strength, but it is enough to get ahold of the solid chunk of flesh that is a human groin to keep it firmly in place. Ford isn't displeased by that particular fact either. He bites his lip as he feels Stan's claws slightly digging in his sides, leaving faint, burning trails on his skin. He feels like he can barely breathe, his face pressed against the mattress, supporting his own weight on his forearms while his ass is hoisted up as much as he can, granting full access to the hungry beast behind him, while said beast pistons into him relentlessly. He breathes heavily, loving beyind reason the burning stretch, the different texture of Stan's member, the insane rhythm that no human could maintain for longer than a minute. He reaches down to grasp his own leaking erection, tugging at himself with a harshness matching the wolf's movements. He moans, pushes back, takes in everything he's given, the scratches, the tip, the shaft, the knot, the cum, gratefully. His position gets even more uncomfortable as the wolf pushes in as deeply as he can while he comes, effectively moving him further toward the end of the mattress, keeping him still with his own weight as he fills him with his seed. Ford finishes like that, his hand tightly squeezing his own balls, his hole gaping with Stan's girth, an undignified noise crawling up from his chest and escaping his lips. He blames the endorphin release for the wild thoughts crowding his brain, for the sheer bliss of their coupling, for the thrilling promise of the many more similar endeavours that will keep them busy until the next morning.

* * *

Ford usually doesn't sleep during full moon nights. He's fairly sure he could do it without any serious risk for anyone's safety, but previous experiences have taught him that Stan's penchant for rubbing himself against sleeping partners isn't diminished by the full moon. And, while that might be a rather pleasant and flattering experience with a human partner, waking up with a horny wolf humping one's backside and failing to achieve his purpose through sheer lack of lubrication is admittedly a bit too jarring even by Ford's standards. So a waking vigil it is, one with many entertaining interruptions. Ford usually appreciates each and every one of them despite the aforementioned repetitiveness, especially because, somehow, each and every one of them unfolds a bit differently. For example, there's no real reason for Ford to be enjoying this one in particular more than the others, as it's almost exactly the same routine and mechanism, yet he does. This time he's fairly confident he's this close to losing his mind from sheer pleasure. He's trembling on his hands and knees, barely managing to support the combined weight of his own body and the huge wolf perched on top of him. He's gasping and moaning unabashedly, hot and sweaty, twitching and shaking. The thrusts are as savage as always, as delightfully mindless and uneven as it is the wolf's habit, but this time they feel stronger, better, more. They've barely started this round, yet Ford's dick is already hard and leaking without having even been touched, his hips are already snapping back against Stan's groin shamelessly, he's already more vocal than he would ever admit. He comes suddenly, adding more stains to the already filthy sheet, moaning louder still. The wolf responds with a growl of his own and keeps going, goaded by the contraction of Ford's walls and by the heady smell of sex and arousal that no doubt his keen nose can perceive with shocking clarity. There is the knot, pressing against Ford's rim once again, and once again Ford takes it, arching his back and keening from the overstimulation. He comes again when the wolf finishes, and that reminds him, that reminds him of the vials in his bag, the vials he had specifically brought to take a few samples of his own blood and possibly of the wolf's semen and saliva too, because that's not the first time such a physiological unlikelihood has happened to him and the only reasonable explanation is for the wolf to produce some sort of aphrodisiac secretion during the mating, God knows how or why.

He's still stupidly hard when Stan pulls off and lets him crumple down onto the mattress. He takes himself in his hand, determined to exhaust the arousal by sheer attrition, and he's jerking himself firmly when he feels the wolf's tongue lapping at his rear, carefree as usual. Well, it does start as usual, but instead of contenting himself with a few licks, Stan keeps at it for a while this time, with peculiar attentiveness and determination. He definitely steps out of the usual routine when he pushes his appendage against Ford's entrance firmly, easily slipping past the loosened muscles and into him. Ford whinces and tries to shuffle away, but the damp snout follows him, licking and teasing with renewed intent. It is a new occurrence, and Ford promises himself to document it dutifully as soon as he can, as soon as his legs will stop trembling and will safely bring him as far as the desk. He focusses on the amazing feeling of the wolf's thick tongue spreading him anew, producing the most obscene slurping noises, caressing and pushing inside him with less harshness than his member, but without resulting any less thrilling and satisfying. He moans, rubs, shivers, pushes back, and, when the tongue reaches further than Ford thought possible and touches just the right spot, he comes again, ridiculous as it sounds.

He has no idea how he manages to stay awake after that, he isn't completely sure he hasn't dozed off at some point. Stan has, and he's still leisurely curled up on Ford's clothes when the man finally manages to lift himself from the bed. He feels positively drained, but he does want to collect those samples. There is a bet on the line he has no intention of losing, and, more importantly, a precious modicum of self-respect he really wishes to hold onto.

* * *

Ford notices he's feeling quite peckish himself when Stan starts excitedly sniffing and pawing at his bag, tail wiggling enthusiastically. Ford grabs four substantial beef cuts from the thermal pouch and tosses them to the wolf, who eagerly carries them to the opposite side of the room and happily starts munching on them. Ford sits on the bed and observes him as he pops a couple of nutritional tablets in his mouth, not really trusting his stomach to tackle anything more complex if their activities keep up their frenzied pace.

Eventually, tiredness is starting to catch up with him. Whatever the mysterious cause for his exceptional stamina and enthusiasm might be, in the end it can't match the physical limits of a sixty year-old man. Stan might be as spry and energetic as when they started, but Ford is finding it increasingly difficult to stay in the proper mood.

He could just leave. He's rather certain that nothing bad would happen if he left Stan on his own in the basement for a few hours. Maybe some furniture would get scratched and wrecked, half of the dirt floor would be dug up for no reason whatsoever, but nothing worse than that. Stan wouldn't try to prevent him from leaving, and even if he did, there are ropes, muzzle and a loaded tranquilizer gun in his bag, ready to be used. He's never needed them, not even remotely, yet they have both agreed to keep them within reach during the full moon as an extra safety measure. Stan himself has repeatedly told him that he doesn't need to be looked after like a sickly puppy for every single minute, but Ford just prefers to keep him company. Keeping up with his brother's wolfish temper can prove rather challenging later during the night, but in all honesty Ford feels like ditching him at the first hint of selfishness might be a tad hypocritical on his part, especially considering how long Ford's been wrapped in his own head since… well, always. And especially considering how thoroughly he himself enjoys their night-long activities, for the most part.

Actually, Ford isn't sure Stan would even be aware of his absence afterwards. His memories of the full moon nights are always very fragmentary and fuzzy. He retains the general gist of his actions and mood, but most details escape him completely. In fact, Ford hasn't quite managed to grasp exactly how self-aware and rational Stan is in his wolf form. There are times when his gaze and gestures truly recall human behavior and awareness, but on some occasions he seems to only heed his most elementary instincts. Whatever the case might be, it is fairly clear that Ford's presence somewhat helps with keeping any extreme reaction at bay, and it does offer him a safe outlet for his pent-up energy. That's more than enough of a reason to stay anyway.

There's also the fact that Ford is genuinely interested in observing and documenting the peculiar kind of lycanthropy that affects Stan. Unlike the more common infectious type, Stan's particular condition is due to an unfortunate curse he received from an annoyed fae because of a very untimely and crass joke. It doesn't appear to be contagious and it leads to much less violent and aggressive transformations than the average, but unfortunately it's completely unresponsive to all the chemical concoctions and treatments Ford is aware of. Apparently, since the root of the problem is of magical nature, physiological and pharmaceutical therapies get somehow neutralized before they can have any effect. This is the main reason why it's taking them so goddamn long to find a cure, having spent the past five months on more or less wishful goose chases about myths and folkloristic tales on how to appease a specific kind of angry magic creature. They should be nearing their target now, though. After a month-long trip to Yucatan that led them to a forgotten Mayan temple and proved to be a complete though most interesting waste of time, an unexpected stroke of luck provided them with a very promising hint on a possible solution in Alaska. It just so happened that, as they sailed up along the West Coast to reach their next destination, the twins were spending some time in Oregon to visit Soos and their friends. There was no way Ford could deny Stan the possibility to relax a little with the kids, despite their unsolved ordeal.

Ford lies down on the bed with a sigh. It won't be long now. Granted, that kind of lycanthropy provides them with almost more benefits than troubles, but Ford wouldn't put any academical interest or physical recreation above Stan's safety. The sooner they get rid of the curse, the sooner they'll lift this unnecessary worry from their minds.

Soon Stan's snout is poking at his side again. Ford reaches down and awkwardly pats his head while not so subtly trying to push him away. Obviously it doesn't work, and soon the wolf is on the bed too, restlessly nudging and pawing at him to coax him into a more likable position. Ford sighs, barely managing to keep the animal at a reasonable distance while he applies some more lubricant to himself. Then he rolls on his stomach, spreads his legs, and relaxes.

* * *

At a certain point, it really starts to burn. It isn't surprising, considering the ridiculous number of intercourses he's had in a single night, that neither extensive experience and generous amounts of lube can't quite avoid the natural soreness arising in his rear. It's normal, but also quite annoying. Without even considering the awkward discomfort that's going to set in the next morning, the present irritation really doesn't help him enjoy the activity, now that his stamina is also seriously starting to fail him. He's barely hard, and the powerful thrusts in his backside almost hinder his pleasure more than they actually enhance it. Ford breathes and relaxes, clenching and unclenching the sheets in his fists, but even those basic expedients have no effect. It might be his own imagination, but he kind of feels like Stan isn't particularly enjoying himself either, his hips snapping nervously and harshly without the usual apparent drive. Ford tries to reach down to grasp himself, but a pair of strong paws step heavily on his back, weighing him down against the mattress and restraining his movement and breathing.

"Oh, come on now…"

It is pointless to talk to Stan in those circumstances, he's amply tested that, the wolf either genuinely can't understand speech or is completely uninterested in words during the full moon. Yet Ford allows himself the simple satisfaction of cursing at the problematic creature looming above him as he's so pettily denying him the most basic sort of relief. He can tell when some of the thrusts do brush his prostate, but by this time his body has mostly become unable to process the stimulation as anything remotely agreeable, and all that contact gives him is a shocking, jarring sensation that riles up each and every over-stimulated nerve. He grunts from the effort of keeping still as the shoves becomes more frantic, as the creature's erection burns and discomforts him more and more evidently with each passing second, to the point of actually making him think of trying to push the beast off him, no matter the consequences. When he tries to take himself in his hand again, the wolf growls angrily and sinks his claws right above Ford's shoulder blades, drawing a loud yelp from him because of the tolerable but unexpected pain. The whole thing has stopped being any kind of pleasurable for him by the time the wolf finishes, whining loudly and scooting off the bed immediately afterwards without repeating his usual post-coital sniffing-licking procedure. Ford groans, reaching behind himself to prod carefully at his hole, which he finds positively gaping, sore and raw, the wolf's leaking semen sending bothersome shivers along his spine.

He squints at the beast, huddled up in the farthest corner from him. Nervousness, aggressiveness, noticeable lack of knot - thank the Axolotl for that last one. It isn't hard to guess that Stan's starting to revert back to his human form. There is nothing Ford can do about that, even if he wasn't currently rather pissed at him. Applying the earlier accelerating method on a vexed, pained wolf is way too much of a risk. He has tried, it hasn't worked.

Ford exhales and relaxes marginally, finally taking ahold of his own erection, but he gives up after few strokes. He's too tired even for that. He fetches the discarded sheet as he feels cold for the first time since taking off his clothes. He miraculously manages to find a small area of fabric that isn't hopelessly torn or soiled, and he wraps it around himself as best as he can. He rolls on his side, stretches his legs, closes his eyes, sleeps.

* * *

When Ford wakes up, he's greeted by his brother's normal, human, concerned face. It isn't hard to guess that he must make a mildly disquieting sight, his naked, scraped form haphazardly crumpled on a stained and torn mattress. He does feel pretty devastated too, but Stan doesn't look much better. He's already fairly pale and sweaty, as he's never in peak physical condition during the first few days after the full moon. Nevertheless, Ford makes a conscious effort to smile. What's left to do other than applauding, after the performance is over?


End file.
